


Strong and Resolute

by orphan_account



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Cuckolding, F/M, Humiliation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6132971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the morning of his endorsement for Donald Trump, Chris Christie has to will himself to support a man he despises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strong and Resolute

_I really shouldn't wear a magenta tie_ , Chris Christie decides. Of all the things that should be on Christie's mind, he can't believe his tie is at the forefront. He should be more concerned with his future, which is already laid out for him.

In two hours, he will board a private plane to Fort Worth. In six hours, he will endorse Donald Trump for president of the United States of America. In five months, Donald will probably pick Christie as his running mate. Up into November, he will be Trump's vicious surrogate. And on Election Day, he'll end up a political footnote.

“Stop it,” Christie mutters to himself. He glances at his watch – 6:18 A.M., Central time – and flops back onto his hotel bed, closing his eyes. _Maybe that's why I care about the color of my tie. Better to think about that than the living hell the next nine months will be._

Even now, Chris Christie can't say how he got here. He was a popular two-time governor, winning reelection in a landslide. He gave the keynote address at the 2012 Republican convention, and everyone around him told him he was electrifying. When he entered the presidential race, his favorability ratings were through the roof.

He hadn't taken it personally when he finished tenth in Iowa; of course those simpletons were going to back some Tea Party freak like Ted Cruz over an urbane New Jersey governor. Christie was going to win New Hampshire, become the establishment favorite, and bully every other contender into submission. That's what Christie's campaign manager told him, and Ken was never wrong.

Then Christie finished sixth in New Hampshire. His campaign was done.

He should have fired Ken sooner. Hell, he should have dropped out months earlier, like Scott Walker did: then he would have saved some face. Now he had to go out and smile and pretend he was thrilled to endorse Donald Trump, that fascist, hateful pile of monkey shit.

A loud knock on the door breaks Christie from his trance. He sits up.

“Chris? Chris, what the fuck are you doing in there? Let me in.” Christie rolls his eyes, strides to the door and opens it. Corey Lewandowski, Trump's campaign manager, stands in the hallway with arms crossed and a sour expression. Christie frowns.

“Corey, what the hell do you want? The rally isn't even until 12:30.”

“Doesn't matter,” Lewandowski says. He impatiently taps his foot, nose wrinkled like he smells rotten eggs. “Look, it's going to be hot out there at our rally today. We need you in your stage makeup before the flight so we can reapply it when you sweat it off. You don't wanna look like an oaf on the biggest day of your life, do you?” Christie wishes he could punch Corey Lewandowski in the goddamned mouth.

Live to fight another day. “Fine, Corey. I'll be downstairs in 20 minutes,” Christie says.

Lewandowski relaxes his posture. “Good. You know, it's wonderful that you decided to go along with Donald. Those establishment snobs are really going to hate you now.”

Christie clenches his jaw. “That's not why I'm doing this, but I'm glad Donald appreciates my endorsement,” he eventually manages.

Lewandowski gives him a poisoned smile. “Nah, you're doing this because you're a shameless opportunist. Whoa, hold on,” Lewandowski says as Christie steps toward him. “Opportunists are fine with me. I don't even have anything against shamelessness! If Donald were in your shoes, he'd be taking advantage just like you.” Lewandowski pauses. “Of course, he'd never be in your position to begin with.”

A dozen retorts come to Christie's mind, but as he opens his mouth Lewandowski once again cuts him off. “Easy there, big boy, just making a point about Donald.” His face turns serious again. “Get your speech ready on the flight. I want to hear it before we hit the stage.”

At last, something tolerable. “Fine,” Christie says. He moves to close the door, but Lewandowski blocks it with his foot.

“Oh, could you do one more thing? Change your tie, it makes you look weak. Donald would hate to have his top surrogate looking like a cuck.” The campaign manager gives him a wink and walks off.

Christie watches Lewandowski slip into the stairwell and out of sight, frozen in his doorway. He is shaking.

Christie knew endorsing Trump would mean _Fox News_ and _National Review_ and _The Daily Caller_ and all the right-wing pseudo-intellectuals who hated Trump were sure to go after him. They would call him despicable, morally pathetic, cowardly. Maybe they were right. Fuck them anyway.

They hadn't been there when he had to call Ken and his other staffers to tell them he was suspending the campaign. They weren't there when he was back home in Mendham, trying avoid thinking about the election as pundits ripped him and his supporters flocked to other candidates.

They sure as hell weren't there when Marco Rubio, that fucking _robot_ , called to ask for his endorsement after wrecking Christie's campaign. They hadn't listened to Rubio promise him that he “still had a bright future in public service,” as though some no-name freshman senator weren't threatening Christie's career. Fuck Rubio.

Ironically, Rubio's message persuaded Christie to endorse a candidate. When he called Trump to let him know about his upcoming endorsement, he could have sworn he rendered Trump speechless until he invited Christie to meet him in Chicago. And thank God, Trump only had one catch. “Bring Mary Pat along,” Trump had said, “Melania needs someone to talk to and your wife is hot stuff.”

_Bzzt._ Christie pulls out his phone to see who texted him and furrows his eyebrows when he sees it came from Trump. **_Chris. Corey says you=cold fish this morning. Wake up! Need a tremendous endorsement! Understand?_ **

Christie's cheeks flame red. Trump never stops pounding at your ego, not even after he beats you. And Christie has never been humiliated like he has been by Donald Trump.

* * *

 

When Christie went to Chicago to seal the deal, he expected a nice dinner, top-shelf wine, and an easy conversation. Maybe Donald wanted to be flattered, or maybe Donald just wanted to break his balls before accepting an endorsement.

“I want to fuck your wife.”

Christie froze, caught with a mouth full of tenderloin. He wasn't caught off guard when Trump insisted that they eat in a private room of _Sixteen_ , Trump Tower's five-star restaurant, or when Melania and Mary Pat left their table – presumably to get a drink from the bar. But after five minutes of Trump's spiel, Christie was so flabbergasted he thought his heart might have stopped.

Trump took the lack of response as an excuse to continue. “You heard me, Chris. I'm going to fuck your wife. That's what I need to accept your endorsement. Make it happen and you're my guy,” Trump said, punctuating his demand with a gulp of Sauvignon Blanc. Christie swallowed his food and started to speak.

“You have no right to ask–” “Stop, Chris,” Trump interrupted, setting down his wineglass with a heavy clunk. “You're a loser. That's why you're here; I didn't call you, you called me. I need great people on this campaign. If we can't have great people, I need people who understand greatness. I don't need to ask you for anything.”

Christie still couldn't believe what he was hearing. “I- I'm not going to let you have sex with Mary Pat,” he stammered.

Trump's gaze intensified. “Wrong answer, Chris, for two reasons. One, if you say no, your career is over. Rubio already called to ask for your endorsement, and you turned him down. Don't ask how I know, I know. If word gets out that you begged to endorse me and I turned you down, you're a joke to everyone.” Christie was stunned into silence, which Trump took as a sign to continue. “Two, I already asked her, and she said yes. Your wife said you don't satisfy her anymore. Isn't that funny?”

Christie once again tried to say something, _anything_ , but Trump wouldn't let him. “Shut up, I'm talking. You know, you're pretty stupid. Since you didn't accept my first offer, I'm going to drive a harder bargain. Here's what you need to do for me to accept your endorsement: I'm going to fuck your wife, and you're going to be in the room watching me fuck her. Otherwise, no deal and your career is over.”

The hair on Christie's neck was standing up. “I don't believe you,” Christie said.

Trump returned to his usual squinting smile. “I figured you might say that. Can you come with me? Dinner can wait,” Trump said, setting his napkin aside and standing up. Christie watched Trump start to leave the table; not wanting to be left behind, he followed Trump out of the dining room. As they left the restaurant, Christie's mind was in a haze– the absence of Mary Pat and Melania at the bar barely registered. Trump led him into an elevator and mashed the button for the penthouse suite.

As the elevator door closed, Christie finally regained enough of his wits to choke out a question. “Why are you doing this?”

Trump turned to Christie and raised an eyebrow. “You don't get it, Chris?” Trump asked. Christie shook his head, and Trump reciprocated. “When you're on my campaign, you belong to me. I'm the man who's make America great again, and when I'm president, everything in America will belong to me. My campaign needs, resolve, and if you want to be my top guy, you need to show me how much resolve you've got."

The elevator opened. In front of them, beyond a short foyer, was the door to the penthouse. Christie could hear muffled sounds coming from inside. Trump put an arm around Christie's shoulder and spoke softly.

“You know, Chris, you don't have to see what's behind this door. You can go back downstairs, finish your steak, and leave Chicago without pledging your endorsement.” He leaned in to whisper into Christie's ear, and Christie shivered at the sensation of Trump's hot breath on his skin. “But between you and me, I really think you want to see what's behind this door.”

Trump removed his arm from around Christie's neck pulled out a door key. He gave Christie a questioning look, and at last Christie's mind broke free of the fog. _I can't let this happen. This is wrong_ _. I can't let this happen._

Christie nodded. Trump gave him a slap on the back, and opened the penthouse door. Christie looked inside: there was Mary Pat tied to the bedframe and Melania running her hands all over her and Mary Pat bucking against her touch and Donald Trump shedding clothing and Mary Pat moaning and Donald Trump lining up with her soaking cunt and and and–

* * *

_Bzzt._ Christie's cell phone goes off again, jarring him out of the scene. It's Lewandowski:  **_time's up. need you down here asap. bring mary pat's suitcase w/ yours_ ** , the message reads. He starts to put his phone away, not wanting to think about how he left the penthouse three hours ago and Mary Pat hasn't come back yet.

Christie gathers up his wife's suitcase and prepares to head out. _Bzzt_. He swears he's going to smash up this phone. This time, the text is from Trump. He pales as he reads it.

**_Mary Pat's on her way back down. She says thanks for endorsing a strong leader. Fantastic woman. Would love to have her on the campaign trail!_ **

Chris Christie's grip goes slack, and his phone thumps against the carpet. He refuses to acknowledge that his cock is twitching.

**Author's Note:**

> This is how I picture Chris Christie's endorsement of Donald Trump playing out. What other reason would Christie have to humiliate himself like that?


End file.
